The painter

The first time I met the painter was in the spring. It had been windy all week before then, and with the winds had come a never ending cycle of warm evening, and frigid mornings. I kept trying to sink into my coat a little deeper as I headed to work.

I had been taking my usual route, taking the bus the majority of the way, before walking along the side of the highway to get to the office. That spring morning though, was the first time I saw her.

She was sitting there, on the hill next to the sidewalk, painting away. Every couple seconds, she would look up, appearing to check the area for references. Then she would look down again, working away at her art once more. I had never seen someone paint near here before, so I was very intrigued.

 “ What are you painting?” I asked her. She didn't stop with her art. The only indicator that she had heard me was in the form of a quick glance in my direction.

 “ Not much. I needed references.” She said.

I followed her gaze. The highway was at its usual morning rush, with the cars racing along the open road way. There wasn't a single overpass, or bridge for easily a couple of kilometers. It was a simple wide open road.

 “ Mind if I see?” I asked her. She put a final stroke of paint down on the canvass, and lowered her brush. Turning the canvass around I got my first look at the art.

The painting depicted the highway, with a level of detail that made it almost appear as though it was a picture from a camera, rather than a painting. A series of streaks of colour portrayed the rushing of the cars, each done in such a way to convey a feeling of incredible speed with the stationary lines.

Off to the right of the painting however, was a pedestrian overpass, one that was not truly there. It had been painted with the same impressive detail as the rest of the painting, with a clearly visible man in a blue suit crossing the overpass.

I looked up from the painting, and before me, was the very image I had seen in the art. Before me were the rushing cars, the flat paved highway, and the overpass, complete with the man in the blue suit crossing towards us.

I turned back to her, but she was already leaving. In mere seconds, she had disappeared into a crowd of other busy pedestrians.

The second time I had seen her had been during my summer holidays. I had decided to spend some time at the beach, relaxing, and taking a break from staying at home. The beach was little more than a pile of sand along a river, clear of almost everything. I visited this spot so infrequently, I could almost picture it as being a part of another city.

She had been sitting at the back end of the beach, with an easel and a fresh canvas in place. Just as before, she was painting what was in front of her, checking for references every couple of seconds.

Again I walked over to her, curious as to what she might be painting. The river was relatively calm, without any boats or anything on the water. Despite this, the water seemed a little murky today, something that I felt was a bit unfortunate.

 “ So how's, the painting going?” I asked her. She smiled in turn.

 “ Very well. Would you like to look?” She asked. Even while talking, she never stopped her work, adding details as often as she possibly could.

She motioned for me to come around and look at the art. I obliged, stepping around until I had a clean view of the art piece.

Like before, the art depicted the landscape before me, but I could also pick out a couple of differences. For one, the waters were clear, as though they had been scrubbed and filtered, then applied directly to the painting. There were other differences as well. At the edge of the painted beach, was a small wooden pier, with a middle aged fisherman painted as being in the midst of reeling in a trout.

I looked up, just in time to see the fisherman finally heave his large catch up and onto the pier. I turned around, but I could see her getting ready to leave. As she packed up, she looked at me.

 “ Do you like my art?” She asked me. I nodded my head quickly in response.

 “ It's amazing. I only wish I could achieve something like that.” I said. She got a puzzled look on her face, then she smiled.

 “ You know, art captures a moment, but it can never capture a story. The world always needs good writers.” She told me, as she started to head out.

It took me until the fall for something to really came about with my writing. I had had that day off from work, and had been sitting outside with a notepad, when all at once, an idea came to me. Quickly, I had taken out my pen, and started writing.

The words seemed to flow constantly, a short narrative, one of two parents, finding happiness again after a long history of infighting. Before I finished, a young girl came along, and stopped by the bench I was sitting on.

 “ What are you writing mister?” The girl asked. I waited a few moments before speaking, putting the final words down to paper.

 “ Just a little short story. Want to give it a read?” I asked her. The little girl nodded.

I sat there, watching her as she read my story, her eyes growing wider with every new word. Looking at her, I could almost tell that her parents had been torn apart by infighting over the years. Every time she went home, she would find a marriage hanging by a thread.

 “ That was beautiful.” She said when she had finished reading. She handed back my note book, and I got up to leave. I saw her walking down the street the following day, skipping and laughing in her parents arms.

I was riding the bus at that moment, and when she glanced over and saw me, it looked like she wanted to race over and talk again to me. She started towards me, her parents following closely, but the bus started moving before they could get close.

It wasn't until the days leading up to christmas that I found another strong story concept. At the time, I had been sitting in the middle of an open, flat, field occupying a bench, when the inspiration for a story struck me. This time, it involved a great hill for sledding, and the those who would dare to take the most dangerous paths down that hill. Just as I was finishing the story, the same little girl I had seen back in the fall came by. She looked as though she was off to a friends house.

 “ What are you writing about this time?” She asked me. I only smiled.

 “ How about you read and find out for yourself.” I said. I handed her the note book, and she started to read the story, an expression of amazement growing on her face the entire time.

When she looked up, she could see a massive sledding hill, with a group of people at the top, poised to take on the most dangerous paths down the hill.

 “ That story was amazing. I just wish I could write like that.” She said. I looked her over again, and suddenly something stuck out in my mind.

 “ You know, a story takes time to read. A song can deliver a powerful meaning, and you don't need to take time away from your day to get the message. The world could always use more skilled musicians.” I told her. I had gotten up to leave then, as the two of us parted ways.

Even then, the reality of it all sat there, staring me in the face. I had walked along, keeping one eye on the newly created hill, marveling at the power an artisan really had.